


golden and bright again (the colors are)

by lostinanotherworld24



Category: SEAL Team (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, Friendship, Gen, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:54:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27514150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lostinanotherworld24/pseuds/lostinanotherworld24
Summary: When Clay is 20, he hits a slump. It's not something he talks about.
Relationships: Brian Armstrong & Clay Spenser
Comments: 6
Kudos: 48





	golden and bright again (the colors are)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [burnmedown](https://archiveofourown.org/users/burnmedown/gifts).



> this fic is dedicated to kat, for being the brian to my clay. 2020 has been a spectacularly bad year for me, but it would have been a thousand times worse without her. she is the light of my life, and I am so grateful. 
> 
> happy one-year, love. thank you for it all. 
> 
> warning: discussions of depression and suicidal thoughts.

At the school Clay attended as a kid, before his life shattered into a thousand pieces, a giant crack slashed across the slate-gray concrete of the playground. To him, it seemed to be magic, and he has vivid memories of predicting that crack would split open one day and swallow the school whole. All it would take was an earthquake, and the seam would curl away from itself like pages on a book. (Never mind the fact that they lived in the middle of bumfuck nowhere, and the chances of them having an earthquake were about as likely as pigs flying.)

At 20, Clay feels as though his prediction has come true. Only the giant gaping hole resides right where his soul used to be. 

He’s not sure when it began, this lethargy that seeps into his bones like dew into the morning grass. Abruptly, he’s exhausted all the time, even though he’s sleeping heavier than ever before. He spends all of his energy on pulling himself through the day, which should be unthinkable for someone of his age and health. The guys he works with notice, and tease him relentlessly for the dark circles splotched under his eyes. He’s too worn to form much of a response, and settles for flipping them off, which only eggs them on further.

Next to go is his appetite, which might baffle him if he could draw the willpower to care. It seems like not too long ago that a bottomless pit existed in place of his stomach, whereas now he chokes down as little food as possible. There are some days when he has to remind himself to eat, because if he doesn’t, he just….won’t. His stomach seems content to go without sustenance, judging from the lack of hunger signals. Clay uses the fact that being underweight won’t go over well with the Navy, and forces the bare minimum of food down his throat. 

He’s just beginning to work himself around to the idea that he might have to see a doctor, when the demotion happens. 

Clay prides himself on being intelligent, and he knows anyone with eyes could see his work hasn’t been up to snuff lately. He hates himself for it fiercely, this desire to crawl into a dark hole and spend the rest of his days sleeping. Such a thing should be so far below his station as enlisted navy he’d need a magnifying glass to see it; yet it’s a desire so strong every ounce of willpower goes into the resistance. He’s not superhuman, and sometimes his work pays the price for his weakness. 

It’s not unexpected, yet it still stings like a bitch. (The resultant pay cut doesn’t help matters either.)

Later that night, in his bunk, he feels as though he’s swallowed ten pounds of rocks. The weight of the guilt and the shame is a bitter pill to choke on, and the words of his father the day before Clay shipped out for boot camp return with a vengeance. He’s everything his father ever said he would be, and it’s suddenly both too much and not enough. For the first night in his life, he closes his eyes and prays that he won’t wake up in the morning 

To his resounding disappointment, he does wake up, and has to force himself to not cry from how unbearable even the _ thought _ of enduring another day feels. 

It starts to become a routine, a familiar comfort when the world feels too big and wild. He lays in his bunk, squeezes his eyes shut, and mouths in the darkness a silent plea for God to end his suffering. One of these days, he assures himself, God will take mercy and answer his prayer. Quietly, in his sleep, God will still his beating heart and give him the rest he’s been chasing for far too long. 

Three weeks into this ritual, and so far Clay is without evidence that he’s any closer to the end. He’s begun to think that God maybe wants him to take the reins, and obtain death for himself. The thought of ending his own life is deeply distasteful to the navy in him, and yet the human aspect can’t help but yearn for this suffering to end. Plans have begun to formulate in his mind when everything changes, not that he knows it at the time.

He’s in the mess, forcing a meager meal down his lunch and letting his thoughts drift a little, when the bench he’s on depresses with weight. Someone plops down beside him, their tray clattering a little against the laminate wood of the table. Although he wants to groan, because fuck conversation right now, he still forces himself to turn his head and give the other person a polite smile. Armstrong, who Clay vaguely remembers from bootcamp, gives him a sunny smile in return and shoves some food in his mouth. 

“Great day, isn’t it? Beautiful weather we’re having.” 

“Yeah, I guess,” Clay lets out an awkward laugh and portions off a little of the slop that passes for food. 

A few minutes pass in blissful silence before Armstrong talks again. 

“Hey, did you hear Lt. Commander Mauck might return stateside? Says he wants to spend more time with his wife.” 

“Did he now,” Clay murmurs, fidgeting with his fork uneasily. He wonders if Armstrong is too stupid to know the last thing Clay wants to do is talk, or if he just doesn’t care.   
Armstrong makes a few more valiant attempts at conversation before Clay’s lunch period ends and he’s able to excuse himself. 

Xxx 

Part of Clay worries that Armstrong might try it again the next day, but thankfully the other man is absent. A few days pass with Clay’s lunch hours passing in relative peace, and he thinks with relief Armstrong might be sufficiently warned off. He appreciates that the guy apparently wants to make friends or whatever, but he’s good on his own. Always has been and always will be. 

Of course that relief is short-lived, because the very next day Armstrong approaches him in the mess hall again. Unfortunately for him, Clay’s feeling particularly shitty today, so he barely acknowledges the other man, offering mostly half-hearted grunts to the endless stream of words coming his way. If Armstrong notices how Clay’s effort level has plummeted even more, he doesn’t seem offended, cheerfully chattering on about this, that or the other thing. Clay figures he didn’t give off a strong enough hint about his lack of interest, so this time at the end of lunch he simply gets up and walks away without a word. 

When Brian tosses him a basketball on one of the courts at rec time and jerks his chin towards the hoop, Clay loses it. 

“What the  _ fuck,  _ Armstrong?! What is with you trying to make friends?” 

“Can’t a guy just be nice for once?” Armstrong questions, seemingly unfazed by the eruption. 

“There’s nice and then there’s whatever the fuck this is!” 

“To me, ‘whatever the fuck this is’ just involves shooting some hoops, for right now,” Armstrong pauses for a moment as he contemplates something. “Plus, you seem like you could use a friend.” 

“Well, I don’t, so just leave me alone, okay?” Clay snaps, and hurls the ball at Armstrong’s head. He grabs his towel and goes back inside, allowing the weight of his rage to bury his guilt.

Xxx 

A week later, Clay’s calmed down enough to admit (at least to himself) that he could have handled that better. Armstrong was just being nice, and Clay’s response was to try to take him out via basketball. But at least the weird attempts at friendship have stopped, for which Clay’s thankful. He half-expected the guy to show up in the mess with matching bracelets. (And wouldn’t  _ that  _ have been a sight.) 

But then it’s one of the days where it seems like the whole world’s against him. He makes mistake after mistake, until it culminates at supper with him nearly relieving Anderson of a couple teeth. Petty Officer Helmich drags him outside, screaming at him the whole way there, before he dumps him onto the unforgiving concrete. Face nearly tomato red, Helmich orders him to run laps until he pukes, which despite the rage bubbling in Clay’s veins, he obeys. Ten laps in, Armstrong falls into step beside him. 

Clay wants to tell him to fuck off, to get away, that this isn’t his  _ business,  _ and yet there’s a part of him that can’t help but be grateful for the company. 

They don’t stop until the sun has dipped below the horizon, a dark carpet of blue and black covering the wide expanse of sky. Helmich’s whistle cuts through the still night air, with both of the men sighing with relief. As they jog back, Clay glances at his companion and wonders if the guy got dropped on his head too many times as a baby or something. Either that or he’s certifiably insane, and Clay thought they had a rule against that. Or maybe not, and that’s how Ash got in. 

Later that night, Clay’s on night watch, slumped halfway in his chair while watching little green dots track across a radar screen. A hand molds itself to his shoulder, and Clay nearly falls in his attempt to sit up straight. Armstrong slides a cup of coffee onto the desk, steam curling over on itself. He takes the chair next to Clay, and briefly scans the myriad of computer screens before sipping from his own cup of coffee. 

“So, tell me something,” Clay says. “What’s your angle here?” 

“Can’t a guy just want to be friends?” 

“Most guys would’ve taken the hint  _ after  _ I chucked the basketball at your head.” 

Armstrong laughs, and takes another sip from his coffee. 

“It’s been my experience that the people that are hardest to love are usually the ones that need it the most.” 

Clay can’t help the automatic eye-roll that triggers, because of course the one guy that wants to be his friend is into all that woo-woo shit. Brian hits him lightly in the shoulder as retribution, before pulling out his phone and describing his fantasy football team in detail. Clay’s not a big fan of football, and yet he finds himself listening anyways. 

Xxx

However, just because he has a semblance of a friendship doesn’t mean he’s rid of his problems entirely. The black dog scratches at the door more often than not, and although Clay tries to shield Brian from the worst of it he can’t suppress it entirely. Clay swings from apocalyptic rage to all-consuming sadness in the space of an hour, and though Brian is careful to respect his boundaries, he’s not stupid. Clay knows Brian would probably prefer he see a doctor or some shit, like he had been considering so many months ago, but Clay thinks he has a pretty good handle on it. Sure, sometimes he gets the urge to burst into tears at the oddest of times, but doesn’t that happen to everyone? 

A little voice that sounds suspiciously like Brian informs him  _ probably not,  _ but Clay ignores it. 

Xxx 

Though he’d never, ever admit this, there is always a little part of Clay’s mind that wonders if he’s good enough for Brian. It’s just that Brian is so much _better_ than Clay could ever hope to be _,_ filled with life and happiness, and Clay is this angry, bitter, twisted-up mess. That same dark corner of his mind wonders if Brian is maybe just humoring him, and is waiting until something happens to let him down easy, tell Clay that they weren’t ever really friends. It’s happened before. 

Until the day Clay finds Brian crying. 

It’s in the middle of a week’s worth of leave, and they’d made plans to go fishing, only for Brian to not show up when he’s supposed to. A half-hour passes before Clay’s worried enough to call, which garners no response. Another half-hour goes by before Clay makes the decision to head over to Brian’s place, worrying about a thick weight in his chest. It’s so unlike Brian to ditch him like this that Clay finds himself noting the exact time he last spoke to Brian, in case he has to tell it to NCIS. 

The sight of Brian’s car in its assigned slot eases the worry somewhat, but Clay won’t be completely assured until he sees Brian with his own two eyes. Repeated presses of the buzzer to pop the front door go unanswered, forcing Clay to pick the lock with the kit he’s not even technically supposed to have. As Clay heads down the stuffy, foul-smelling hallway that leads to Brian’s door, he automatically scans for signs of a struggle. Nothing. 

_What the fuck, Brian?_ _  
_ Relief bowls Clay over when he knocks at the door and Brian answers, eyes red but otherwise looking hale and hearty. His eyes widen with shock at seeing Clay, eyes darting down to the wristwatch he never takes off. Brian audibly groans at seeing the date, and scrubs a hand through his already messily-tangled hair.   
“Fuck, Clay. I’m __so sorry. I completely lost track of the days.” 

“It’s okay man, but uh...is everything okay?” 

Brian glances down at himself, and sheepishly rubs the back of his neck, as though he’s first noticing his disheveled appearance. His shirt has deep-set wrinkles in it, and his pants are both ripped  _ and  _ torn. Seaver would have a fucking  _ fit  _ if he could see Brian now. 

“Yeah, it’s just been a bit of a rough day, I guess,” Brian forces out a half-choked laugh, as a ghost of a smile slides over his face. Clay contemplates him for a moment, before asking. 

“Do you mind if I come in?” 

Brian comes extremely close to saying no, before something in Clay’s face changes his mind. 

//// 

Clay sips from his beer, and tries to study Brian as inconspicuously as he can. He seems entirely focused on the basketball game they’d found on ESPN, but his eyes keep wandering away, fingers fidgeting at the label on his beer bottle. There’s an invisible, yet nearly tangible, separation between them, the kind of thing that happens when someone’s keeping secrets. For a long while, it doesn’t look as though Brian’s going to say anything, before he suddenly mutes the commercials and turners towards Clay fully. 

“I really am sorry, about not showing up. It’s just been a bad day, is all.” 

“You wanna talk about it?” Clay asks, picking at one of his nails. 

For a moment Brian hesitates, before huffing out a breath. 

“My sister called me today, was upset about this guy she’s seeing. Seems like a real jerk.” 

“You wanna go kick his ass?” 

That elicits somewhat of a genuine laugh, before Brian shakes his head. 

“Nah, I think she’ll be fine. She just needs to have better taste in men.” 

Clay nods, and lets the subject drop there, guiding the conversation back to the basketball game. They never speak of it again, but there’s an unmistakable closeness that wasn’t there before. 

Xxx 

Years pass before Clay realizes just how much of a good thing Brian was. At 20, he was nothing more than a gaping wound, and the entire world was a shaker of salt. Maybe it had been God, or maybe just the universe or some kind of fate, but something had conspired to bring him a bandage in human form. He never would’ve survived those days without Brian, and the enormity of that is enough to bring him to his knees. 

Sometimes, he tries to find the words to tell Brian this, but they never come. He tries to tell himself that surely Brian knows, but there’s an itch within him to  _ make sure  _ Brian knows. But when he tries to cautiously broach the subject, Brian simply gives him a sunny smile and a head nod, and a rush of relief near damn fells him. Words don’t matter when Brian knows his  _ soul,  _ and that’s the best damn thing he could ever ask for. 


End file.
